


At the Close

by kerithwyn



Series: FringeTrek [6]
Category: Fringe, Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2727707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerithwyn/pseuds/kerithwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celebrating the end of the successful first year of the USS <i>William Bell</i>'s voyages. Flashback for the FringeTrek mash-up universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Close

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Elfin--as always--for first look and incentive to finish this.

Even in the 23rd century, Federation starships celebrated New Year’s. The holiday had been introduced by the human crews and—as with any human endeavor—promptly expanded to integrate non-Terran traditions as well. New Year’s Day had evolved into a time of reflection, an opportunity to consider the previous year and set a course for the new one.

New Year’s Eve, however, remained an excellent excuse for a party.

Sam Weiss took the responsibility for organizing the festivities seriously. The champagne—or the nearest synthehol equivalent—would flow. The music would be lively and danceable. The crew of the _William Bell_ **would** have a good time. Sam’s determination to make these things true bordered on obsession, but it wasn’t that often that a Rec Chief had the opportunity to go all out for a party.

Olivia wasn’t immune to the general air of levity that permeated the ship toward the end of the year, no matter how arbitrary the time-stamp. For this ship, the celebration would also mark the close of her first year’s explorations. The merriment was well earned, on all levels.

Much of that had to do with the passion and skill of her crew. For all that many of the _Bell_ ‘s junior officers were straight out of Starfleet Academy or barely into their second assignments, they’d exceeded all expectations with their performances. And she couldn’t have asked for a better senior staff.

Knowing Charlie had her back helped Olivia sail through the first year. Every new captain experienced challenges to her authority, both overt and subtle. She’d depended on his steady presence at Tactical to help her project an air of confidence...even when she felt anything but.

She’d had reservations about her new Chief Engineer, even given Peter’s qualifications and all personal feelings aside. During the first few weeks of his taking charge of Engineering, he completely reshuffled the department with no regard for Starfleet guidelines or crew ranks. He threw the ship into a frenzy of gossip by assigning CPO Raymond Green as his second in command and beta shift commander. It wasn’t strictly against regulations for enlisted officers to serve as ranking shift officers, though Academy graduates usually served in primary positions as a matter of protocol. 

Olivia didn’t object to bucking protocol for a good cause, and Mr. Green’s service record was impeccable. She stayed aloof from the upheaval, knowing better than to interfere with the internal workings of any particular department. Engineers in particular had a reputation for territoriality.

Peter finally appeared in her ready room with an updated org chart and meticulously detailed notes on the whys and wherefores. He’d made his judgments based on quick drills and gut feeling rather than Starfleet tests or awards, but Olivia had no reason to argue with the results. The department’s efficiency had only improved.

And he’d become a friend as well. She’d obviously liked him from the moment they met on Outpost 16, but there was a vast difference between a brief fling with a congenial stranger and a solid friendship built on mutual respect.

Olivia wished she could claim as strong a friendship with her Chief Science Officer, but Brandon Fayette was...well, in the old idiom, an odd duck. As a science officer, his work was impeccable. But his social interaction with her and the rest of the crew constantly verged on awkward. Awkwardness notwithstanding, he’d proven an asset, and his understanding of “fringe” scientific theories made him uniquely valuable to this crew.

He had that in common with Frank Stanton, who’d been simply solid and utterly trustworthy from the start. He was an exemplary CMO...especially on this ship, where his expertise in dealing with the Cortexiphan subjects’ unique physiologies made him indispensable. And his kindness had made him a friend as well.

As for Lincoln, Olivia hadn’t known what to make of her first officer for the initial several weeks...and then, quite abruptly, realized she’d come to rely on him utterly.

And maybe something more. But after the situation with John, Olivia had made a solemn personal vow not to become involved with any member of her crew. Peter tempted her to break it by his very presence, but Peter had been scrupulous about adhering to their agreement.

Whatever there was—or wasn’t—with Lincoln simmered away a little more under the surface. He seemed to be able to anticipate her thoughts, a trait that made him an excellent first officer, but he also wasn’t afraid to challenge her when he thought she was wrong. Which also was a vital function for a first officer.

And she was jumping the gun on tomorrow’s introspection. Tonight her attention should be devoted to the traditional end-of-year dance, incorporating several Earth holidays into one celebration. It was customary for the captain to dance with whoever asked, although most junior officers didn’t have the nerve. Still, every year a few dared.

Olivia finished the final adjustments to her formal outfit. This year the captain’s dress uniform was an attractive green color, a far improvement from the previous (and hideous) high-necked jacket. The basic style came from Starfleet, but captains were entitled to make alterations. Astrid had been happy to lend a hand—and a needle—and she’d extended Olivia’s dress tunic to a more reasonable length.

But she’d dawdled long enough. She was the captain, but Sam would throw a rightful fit if she was late.

* * *

Nick couldn’t stop smiling.

People talked about moods being infectious but in his case, they actually were. The entire crew’s mood had been elevated during the past week and today that excitement had reached a crescendo, rising in waves as crewmembers came off their duty shifts and started preparing for the party. Many of those who worked alpha shift volunteered to take a portion of beta and gamma hours so every member of the crew could attend during the celebration, at least for part of the festivities.

The senior officers usually opted to wear their dress uniform best, but since the celebration was technically taking place after-hours, junior officers and enlisted could wear whatever they wished. Nick didn’t really care about his attire but Sally did, and indulging her on the little things made him happy because they made _her_ so happy. She’d found an old Earth-style formal suit somewhere for him, and for her—

Sally came out of the bathroom and Nick’s breath caught. “What do you think?” she asked, spinning, the red of her dress matching her red lipstick and contrasting against her pale hair.

Nick didn’t have to say what he thought, not when he could let her feel it. He grinned as Sally’s eyes widened, and then she laughed. “Flatterer.” She stepped in close, sliding her arms around his waist. “But say it anyway.”

“You’re beautiful,” Nick said, bending to kiss her, and then hesitated. “Your makeup?”

“I’ll fix it.” Sally’s hand slipped around the back of his neck and she pulled him down the rest of the way.

After a blissful eternity Nick tore himself away, gasping. “We’ll be late.”

Sally just grinned, her eyes gleaming, her lipstick smeared over her mouth...and, Nick knew, over his. “The better to make an entrance.”

* * *

Sam had redressed the recreation decks in green and silver and gold. He met Olivia as she came in, his face flushed and excited. “We’re almost ready to go. I need to check on the synthesizers, but—”

“Sam,” Olivia said, amused, “start the party.”

The crew started to filter in, mostly alpha shift, making a collective beeline toward the refreshment tables and the delicate confections Sam and his staff had conjured. There was a cake that looked like it was made of tiny individual cream puffs, but Olivia was more interested in the variously flavored cupcakes. She snatched one that Sam’s assistant Krista indicated was coffee-flavored—the whole crew knew about her quasi-addiction. 

The senior staff was already gathering at their reserved table. Olivia picked up a champagne flute and saluted them: Lincoln and Charlie and Peter and Frank and Brandon. “To an excellent first year’s voyage, and to clear sailing toward all our horizons.”

“To our ship and our captain,” Lincoln said, and they all drank.

“To the ship that goes, the star winds that blow, and the lads and lasses who love a sailor,” Peter said slyly, and everyone laughed. “But you know this thing won’t really get started until someone makes the captain dance.”

Lincoln rolled his eyes but held out his hand to request the first dance, as appropriate. “Shall we?”

Olivia smiled at him. “We shall.”

He kept the movement simple, very correct and without too much contact between them. Halfway through the song Lincoln abruptly said, “Thank you.”

Olivia blinked. “For what?”

“For making this year easier than it could’ve been. For giving me a new—a new home.”

She would’ve tripped if he hadn’t had a firm grip on her hand and a steadying palm at her waist. Olivia hesitated over a reply, at a loss, but Lincoln shook his head. “When I came aboard I wasn’t sure I could...do this again. But you’ve made this tour into a genuine pleasure and I’m...I’m grateful.”

“I’m glad,” she said softly. By then the song was winding to a close and Lincoln delivered her back to the officer’s table with a flourish. Olivia picked up their discarded glasses—refilled by some helpful person in their absence—and handed Lincoln’s to him. “To finding a place to belong.”

Lincoln nodded and tapped his glass against hers. “Amen.”

“My turn, kiddo,” a voice rumbled behind her. Olivia turned to see Charlie, exceptionally handsome in his formal command tunic.

“And I didn’t even have to threaten to get you into the red,” she marveled, looking him over.

“Sonia likes it,” Charlie shrugged by way of explanation. That was all he needed to say, really.

He swept her around the dance floor with a casual easy grace, into a formal waltz he’d learned for his wedding, again at Sonia’s behest.

She felt like Lincoln must have, fumbling to find words of thanks, but Charlie caught her eye with an amused smile and he knew all of it, anyway. She squeezed his hand in gratitude and they finished the dance out in style, with a formal bow on Charlie’s part and a reasonable attempt at a curtsy on hers.

The dance requests seemed to have fallen into a recognizable order, and by that logic, Peter should be next. Olivia glanced around to see him huddled with a group of the ship’s children: Ella, Laura Higgins, the Vulcan Selek, a few others. She watched, curious, as Peter nodded to Sam and the first notes of a very recognizable song began.

She started to laugh. Oh, of course he’d chosen something ridiculous. Peter had wisely stayed away from anything that might remind either of them of their outpost dalliance but even so, she knew that by the end of the evening, she’d be wishing that she could abandon her vow.

Olivia watched the weaving line make its way toward her and carefully set her glass aside.

She wasn’t too proud to hop with the best of them.

* * *

Lieutenants Varel and Tavar watched indulgently as their son hopped around the room with the other children. By this point in their careers, commenting on the seeming illogic of human behavior no longer seemed necessary. At least, Varel thought, this activity was engaging Selek’s attention and required a small amount of athletic exertion, which made it a worthy endeavor in its own right.

One embraced logic where it could be found, in an alien place. 

She and Tavar had chosen service in Starfleet over the (politely restrained) objections of their families. It remained a constant challenge to meet the demands of Vulcan moderation and decorum when confronted daily with human excess. But as with other Vulcans in Starfleet, they had found the rewards more than worth the effort. 

Tavar leaned in slightly, murmuring, “It is good to see our son enjoying himself.”

Varel let her mouth twitch upward in the equivalent of a human grin, indicating she was enjoying the sight as well. The humans around them, she knew, would be surprised by the sentiment. But _arie’mnu_ as defined by Surak signified _mastery_ of emotion, not elimination, and neither Varel and Tavar sought to pursue the more extreme forms of emotion suppression. 

They did, however, respect the commitment of those who had chosen otherwise, even for a short time. Varel inclined her head as Ensign Phillips entered the room, subtly indicating that he was welcome to join them. 

“ _Tonk’peh,_ Simon,” Tavar said as the human approached, using the most informal form of greeting as a nod to the casual mood of the occasion. 

“ _T’nar pak sorat y’rani,_ “ Simon replied in the more formal mode, as he had been taught by the Kolinahr masters. Then he seemed to relax slightly, perhaps because the Vulcans’ natural psionic shields offered some relief from the constant input of his telepathic ability. 

Whether the humans responsible for the Cortexiphan project had been justified in attempting to awaken psionic abilities in the children in their care, Varel was not entitled to judge. Vulcans had perfected selective breeding for such ability to a literal science, even if such practices were no longer officially pursued. In such matters, the human aphorism about glass houses held a great deal of value. 

Both Varel and Tavar had been pleased to find in Simon not only a fluent speaker of their native language, but one who had studied under the most stringent Vulcan tradition and retained much of its reserved manner. Which made him quiet for a human and as Vulcan as anyone not born to T’Khasi’s sands could be. Vulcan extended families could span continents with their convoluted genealogies; it was a small stretch to consider Simon as something akin to a distant cousin.

Yet Varel sometimes worried—worry being a Vulcan trait as much as a human one, although those mindful of semantics might call the sentiment “watchful oversight”—that Simon had set himself too much apart from his own people, even more than his ability had already done. 

At least he permitted himself to smile openly, watching the children careen around the dance floor with an increasing number of adults—including the captain—following their enthusiastic lead. Tavar had stepped over to one of the side tables and now he handed over small glasses of synthehol champagne. “I understand it is customary to toast to the new year.”

They both looked to her, as was proper; she was for all intents Head of their very small House. Varel considered, then raised her glass. “To our ship, and her captain,” she said, in the human tradition. “May our continued journeys bring new discoveries and further opportunities to acquire knowledge.” 

The three of them touched glasses and drank, more perfunctorily than with real pleasure. Simon had a Vulcan-like aversion to alcohol, even the synthetic version.

“I would be honored,” Simon said, again somewhat formally, “to look after my youngest cousin for the evening.”

It was a gracious offer, thoughtfully and tactfully extended. Varel thought of the other traditions of this holiday, and nodded her assent without hesitation.

All couples—even Vulcans—needed private time on occasion.

* * *

After the children had scattered, Frank Stanton offered his hand and a challenge. “Let’s up the tempo.”

Olivia accepted both, laughing, and he swept her into a fierce swing dance so complex she had a hard time keeping up. Frank was _sexy_ and he knew how to move. By the end of the dance Olivia was breathless for more reason than one, and maybe just a little bit jealous of Astrid.

Thinking of her comm officer, she glanced around and then up to see Astrid leaning over the balcony from the second floor of the rec deck, grinning down at her. Astrid waved, and then pointed off to a quiet corner of the first floor. Olivia followed her gaze and yes, she was entirely correct. There was one member of the senior staff remaining.

She caught his eye and after a moment, Brandon Fayette put down his mostly untouched glass and came over, valiantly suppressing his obvious discomfort. Olivia almost felt bad about her unspoken instruction, but the crew would whisper if one of her principal officers skipped out on the tradition.

But Brandon smiled, putting his hand up, palm forward in a form Olivia recognized. She mirrored the motion, carefully not touching his hand, and she echoed his surprisingly capable movements as they moved across the room in sync.

Still, her Chief Science Officer looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here, and Olivia set him loose after a turn or two around the floor. “Thank you, Captain, it’s been a pleasure,” Brandon said with a slight bow, leaving Olivia blinking behind him as he left the recreation deck. She knew precisely where he was headed: back to the bridge, to give the others on the bridge science staff (and probably the entire department) the rest of the night off. He’d happily man the quiet station until ship’s morning, pursuing esoteric research as his heart desired.

As for her own evening’s wishes...now that her unofficial obligations had been fulfilled, Olivia could relax and watch her crew at play.

* * *

Frank caught his breath—the captain had risen to the challenge, and then some—and headed back to the upper floor. Astrid met him, laughing, and handed him a wine glass. “That was _hot._ “

He grinned back at her. “And it wasn’t even the tango.”

“Save that for later,” Astrid murmured. “Best in private, anyway.”

“Have I mentioned how much I like your dress?”

“I believe you did.” Astrid twirled, her short skirt flaring out and catching the eye of several other officers on the upper level. Frank didn’t mind them staring, and he knew Astrid didn’t either. Her dress was a cheeky play on the standard Starfleet women’s tunic, equally beloved and hated by female crew members fleet wide. Many of the women aboard the _Bell_ followed the captain’s example and chose the pants version on the uniform. Astrid wore either as the mood struck, but this modification turned the uniform into a provocative spectacle. 

Astrid said she’d gotten the idea after Olivia asked her to lengthen her captain’s tunic, citing a need to maintain balance in the universe. 

“Save the bedroom eyes, too,” she murmured when she turned back to face him. “There are children present.”

Frank saluted her with his glass. “To later, then?” It was at least half a question; he didn’t make any assumptions about where Astrid might choose to spend her time.

They’d met on Academy grounds, while Astrid was doing postgraduate communications study and Frank was giving a lecture on speech disorders stemming from disease or brain injury. They’d hit it off right away and Astrid had informed him, halfway through their first dinner together, that she was so distracted by his hands and the thought of them on her body that she was willing to forgo dessert if he was.

Frank had never had that much of a sweet tooth anyway. 

They shared congenial company as time permitted, with no more expectation than that. They were in accord on that subject, both having grown up in and around Starfleet families. Frank’s parents loved each other deeply...and often from across the galaxy, when their assignments sent them apart. Starfleet made accommodations for married couples, but assignments that perfectly suited both partners were the exception rather than the rule. His parents refused to compromise their skills and instead adapted their marriage to suit them both. Frank grew up understanding that their intermittent lovers didn’t mean his parents loved each other any less. 

Astrid’s father was a widower and a chaplain attached to Starfleet Headquarters. He’d always encouraged Astrid to find her own path, no matter where that might take her.

Frank was just grateful for the time she chose to spend with him.

Astrid saluted him back with a grin. “Definitely later. But now I’m going to grab Olivia for a dance, then go up to the Bridge for a bit to Lian and Jonathan have a turn. Have fun! Just save a dance for me.”

* * *

She thought she’d spend the rest of the evening as a bystander, but her crew had other ideas. At least she’d had had enough time to grab a coffee (never strong enough for her taste, but Sam was working on it) before the parade of dance requests began. 

Straight-faced, Astrid held out her hand, and Olivia took it with a solemn nod. Astrid had chosen something free-form, something Olivia might’ve danced to at a club...if she’d ever spent any time clubbing. Ensign Iyer, never shy, leapt onto the dance floor after a minute or so, and that was the signal for a number of other female crewmembers to jump in as well. 

She was still catching her breath when she felt as much as saw Nick waiting for her, offering his hand. Dancing with Nick was like dancing with her mirror image; she didn’t have to think about steps with him, or where to turn. They kept it brief to prevent people from wondering at their connection, and because Sally was glaring at both of them over her champagne glass.

Olivia began to suspect conspiracy when Nick delivered her to her sister. Rachel smirked, dragging her back out onto the floor without a pause. “Consider this make-up for all the parties you missed growing up.”

After her came Edward Markham and Sonia Francis and Milo Stanfield, and then Olivia called for a break, promising the daunting set of crewmembers intent on a dance that she’d fulfill her commitment to every one.

Astrid must have gone back to the Bridge, because comm officers Lian Chen and Jonathan Grey-Thompson were here—Lian laughing with a group of her beta-shift friends, Jonathan slow-dancing with his husband Kenneth. Kenneth’s Cortexiphan ability hadn’t influenced his choice of profession; minor levitation was only marginally useful on a starship, but his facility with computer systems made him a valued crewmember.

Other couples were dancing too: Raymond and Kate Green, Henry and Jasmine Higgins, Charlie and Sonia. In a separate area, navigator Thecla was demonstrating some kind of Andorian war-dance that looked to Olivia like it should have involved blades, and Zhevaar jav Tek performed a traditional Tellarite dance that seemed identical to a Ukrainian kazatsky.

She found a quiet spot on the wall next to James Heath, undaunted by his dour face. Olivia tried not to let her previous associations affect her interactions with the crew, but she couldn’t help feeling intrinsically linked with her classmates from Jacksonville. Although in James’ case, she never could tell what he was thinking. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

He nodded, politely enough. “It’s good to have a night off.” He smiled wryly. “Even if I can’t complain that you keep Sickbay overly busy.”

She knew he’d become a doctor both because of and despite his ability. But she also knew that he missed his sister, still back on Earth. “James...why did you sign on?”

James shot her an astonished glance. “Don’t you know? I’m here because of you. Because you and Nick [saved Julie’s life.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1289980/chapters/2674696)”

Olivia swallowed hard, remembering. There’d been a lot of frightening moments in Jacksonville for both of them. She hadn’t realized James recalled that one so clearly. “I’m...glad we could help.”

“And more important,” he continued in his customary acid tone, “I couldn’t allow you and the other Cortexibrats to wander across the galaxy without someone responsible keeping an eye on you.”

The glint in his eye made it a joke and Olivia smiled at him, relieved. “‘Cortexibrats,’ huh. That’s a new one.”

“None of us have forgotten,” he said, very low, “how you fought for us. How you keep fighting for us.” James pushed himself off the wall, shaking his head. “I’m taking the rest of the night shift for the medical crew. Have fun, Olivia. You’ve earned it.”

She watched him go, thinking that was probably the longest conversation she’d had with him in years. And how very, very fortunate she was to be surrounded not only by crew, but by her unique kin as well.

* * *

Peter bumped Lincoln’s shoulder as he sat down on the bench. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Lincoln nodded but didn’t look away from the dance floor. “Good party.”

“Not bad. Could be better. Might as well be drinking water instead of synthehol.”

Lincoln felt his mouth curl up in a wry smile. “I’m sure you’ve got a private stash.”

“I do, but it’s no fun to drink alone.” Lincoln finally glanced over to see Peter’s smirk. “That’s an invitation, by the way.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think,” Lincoln started, and stopped when Peter’s fingers grazed over the back of his hand. A slight touch, but electric considering Lincoln hadn’t let himself touch anyone other than in the course of duty in...well over a year. The dance with Olivia earlier had nearly undone him utterly.

“The invitation’s for more than a drink.” Peter’s eyes seemed very blue in the inconsistent dance hall light. “Spending New Year’s alone sucks.”

“You’re offering to kiss me at midnight?” Lincoln said, half incredulous and half amused. Peter had that effect on him.

“Offering considerably more than that, but not if you’re gonna talk it to death.” Peter got up. “I’m going to say good night to Olivia and then vamoose. You know where I live. Don’t be long.”

Lincoln sat for another minute, watching Peter cross the room to speak to Olivia and make her laugh. He envied that, the easy way they had between them; sometimes it felt like he was negotiating a minefield in his interactions with her. But he hadn’t lied earlier, either. Grief was a process, he knew, and he’d been working his way out of a deep pit all year. Olivia hadn’t even known the strength of the rope she’d thrown him.

Peter had been a part of that process too, Lincoln finally recognized, with his easy friendship and acceptance. Maybe just as much. He got up, not really sure of his destination aside from saying good night to his shipmates, but halfway through the room Lincoln realized that he was hurrying. Toward Peter’s room. Toward Peter’s bed.

Definitely, Lincoln thought, a far better way to bring in the new year.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Threshold of the Year to Come](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2722766) by [elfin (crazylittleelf)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazylittleelf/pseuds/elfin)




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